A Poisonous Plot: The Twenty First Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew)

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘When you did not recover, did he tell you it was because you had failed to follow his precise instructions?’

  ‘Yes, he did. Why?’

  Bartholomew’s mind was racing as he turned to Michael. ‘Perhaps Nigellus’s diagnoses are not so outlandish after all. Lenne tasted metal in his mouth, Letia was dizzy, Arnold had insomnia, Yerland had headaches, Irby lost his appetite, while others have suffered from nausea, heavy limbs – including foot drop – and stomach pains.’

  ‘Other than the foot-drop, I have had all those,’ interposed Thelnetham. ‘But the swimming head is the worst – quite distressing, in fact.’

  ‘The other victims also had one symptom that affected them more severely than the others,’ Bartholomew went on, excitement in his voice as answers blossomed. ‘The rest were there, but to a lesser degree. Rougham was right: they are all indications of the same disease.’

  ‘Yes – the debilitas,’ said Thelnetham drily.

  Bartholomew ignored him. ‘Cew, who has been ill for several weeks, has exhibited all these signs, along with constipation. However, I suspect he was witless long before Frenge jumped out at him, but King’s Hall does not want to admit it – it is better to blame a townsman for his condition than to confess that one of their scholars went mad for no reason.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Michael. ‘But I—’

  ‘Cew will only eat oysters and soul-cakes – soul-cakes containing sucura.’

  ‘Containing honey,’ corrected Thelnetham. ‘King’s Hall does not use sucura, because it is illegal. Wayt told me so himself.’

  ‘He was lying,’ said Bartholomew impatiently. ‘Besides, Cew expressed a dislike for honey, so why would one of his two chosen foods contain it? The answer is that it would not.’

  ‘Are you saying that sucura is responsible for all these ailments?’ asked Michael doubtfully. ‘If so, you are wrong. We used some in the marchpanes we served after the disceptatio, and no one suffered any ill effects from those. Moreover, I ate some of King’s Hall’s soul-cakes but I am hale and hearty, as you can see.’

  ‘I doubt a few will be harmful, but Cew has been devouring platefuls of them for weeks. And there was the syllabub at Trinity Hall. I blamed bad cream, but the entire episode was repeated, even though fresh ingredients were used the second time. The culprit was the masses of sucura used to sweeten it – not sufficient to kill, but enough to lay everyone low for a day or two.’

  ‘Arnold liked sweet cakes,’ mused Michael. ‘So did Letia and Segeforde.’

  ‘Well, I do not,’ put in Thelnetham. ‘I have the debilitas, but I have never touched sucura. My Prior issued a ban on it when the Sheriff declared it illegal. Your theory is flawed, Matthew.’

  ‘But you like apple wine,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Sweet apple wine, so syrupy that I cannot bear more than a sip. And we have been told that Irby and Lenne loved it, too.’

  ‘No,’ said Michael firmly. ‘Shirwynk does not add sucura to his wine. If he did, it would be a lot more expensive. You are mistaken, Matt.’

  ‘I am not,’ insisted Bartholomew. ‘The apple wine and the sucura are both responsible for the debilitas, which is why my seven patients in King’s Hall are recovering – they have been told to eat Royal Broth and nothing else. The source of the trouble has been removed, you see.’

  ‘But the wine comes from Shirwynk, while sucura is whisked through the Fens,’ Thelnetham pointed out. ‘You cannot link them, just because both are sweet.’

  ‘But they are linked,’ insisted Bartholomew. ‘I should have seen it days ago. The sucura is not “whisked through the Fens”, which is why Dick Tulyet has had so little success in tracing it. It comes from the brewery. Look at my tabard – Shirwynk shoved me against one of his tanks earlier, and I came away covered in the stuff.’

  He hauled the garment over his head, and pointed at the white dust that still adhered to it, despite Edith’s efforts to brush it off. When Thelnetham and Michael continued to look blank, he produced the packet of sucura that Cynric had given him. It and the dust were identical, and a lick proved they tasted the same as well.

  Michael was stunned. ‘So sucura is brewery dust? But it cannot be, Matt! It has been sold in London for years, and I know for a fact that it is imported at great cost from Tyre.’

  ‘Not this “sucura”,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is different.’

  Michael rubbed his jaw. ‘So are you saying that Shirwynk is the strategist?’

  ‘I do not know about that – only that the source of the debilitas is his brewery. The apple wine and sucura do not kill instantly, but work over a period of time – although a heavy dose, as was in Trinity Hall’s syllabub or Thelnetham’s whole cask of apple wine, will have a more immediate effect. And they are fatal to those weakened by age or sickness, like Lenne, Letia, Irby and Arnold.’

  ‘Lord!’ gulped Thelnetham. ‘I shall never drink wine again.’

  He grimaced as he spoke, which allowed Bartholomew to see a faint line of grey on his gums. It was identical to the ones on the scholars from King’s Hall and Rumburgh.

  ‘Go to Michaelhouse and ask Agatha for some Royal Broth,’ Bartholomew instructed. ‘If you eat it with nothing but plain bread and watered ale for a week, you will be cured.’

  He suspected that just avoiding the white powder would be enough to do the trick, but patients liked to be given ‘medicine’ and tended to get better more quickly if they thought they were taking a remedy that worked. Besides, a diet of vegetables, bread and weak ale would do no one any harm. Thelnetham nodded his thanks and hurried away, eager to start the treatment as soon as possible.

  ‘We cannot march into the brewery and accuse Shirwynk,’ warned Michael. ‘We tried it with Nigellus and look how that turned out. We dare not make another mistake.’

  ‘There is evidence at Barnwell. The canons’ elderflower wine has a reputation for being sour, but they gave me a cup on Tuesday and it was unbelievably sweet. Two clerics died, along with a cook and a gardener – who would certainly have been in a position to filch it from the kitchens. At first, I thought the culprit might have been river fish …’

  ‘You mean fish that had been poisoned by the dyeworks?’

  Bartholomew nodded. ‘Nigellus identified the wine as the cause, which offended Prior Norton, but he was right. The two dead canons were elderly and in frail health, while the servants were fat, and probably sat around downing a lot of it.’

  Michael was still unconvinced. ‘Did Norton admit that sucura had been added?’

  ‘Of course not. He claimed the wine’s sweetness was due to the sun ripening the grapes at the right time, but I could tell he was lying. Send a beadle to Barnwell to get the truth. Norton will confess if he knows it is important.’

  Michael did so at once, urging the man to hurry. Then Bartholomew spotted Rumburgh scurrying along with his head down, aiming to conceal himself from scholars who thought that Anne had torn off her own dress in the fracas outside the dyeworks. The burgess blanched when Bartholomew ordered him to tip his head back and open his mouth. The grey line on his gums was thicker than it had been a few days before.

  ‘Do you like apple wine?’ Bartholomew demanded.

  Rumburgh shook his head. ‘I am an ale man myself. There is nothing more delicious than ale and a cake of a morning. It—’

  ‘Sweet cakes?’ interrupted Bartholomew. ‘Ones flavoured with sucura?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ gulped Rumburgh unconvincingly. ‘That would be illegal.’

  ‘This is not evidence, Matt,’ warned Michael, after Rumburgh had scuttled away. ‘Shirwynk will claim that you are trying to protect Edith by sacrificing him. And others will agree.’

  ‘Stephen wanted to be an architect, did he not?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘And he has a lot of books on the subject?’

  Michael blinked at the abrupt change of topic. ‘Yes – a library that should have come to Michaelhouse. Why?’

  But Bartholomew was already running towards the High Street. Michael
hurried after him, and caught up just as he was hammering on Stephen’s door.

  ‘Why are you interested in architecture all of a sudden? How will Stephen’s books prove that Shirwynk is the poisoner?’

  ‘Years ago, I read something in De architectura by the Roman engineer Marcus Vitruvius Pollio,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘Michaelhouse does not have a copy, but Stephen will.’

  ‘I still do not understand,’ snapped Michael. ‘Explain.’

  ‘I will,’ promised Bartholomew. ‘When I am sure myself.’

  A servant conducted them to the pleasant room at the back of the house, where the lawyer was lying full length on a cushioned bench. The number of pots and packets on the table besides him suggested that he had been frantically dosing himself with all manner of medicines from the apothecary. He was pale, frightened, and the room had the unmistakeable odour of sickness.

  ‘You came fast, Bartholomew,’ he whispered with pathetic gratitude. ‘I thought you might refuse, given that I have aggravated the situation between town and University with my lawsuits, and our last meeting was less than amiable …’

  ‘Scholars are not vindictive men,’ averred Michael, before Bartholomew could remark that he had not received a summons. ‘But before Matt helps you, tell me whether you advised Shirwynk to sue Morys for trespass.’

  Stephen paled even further. ‘Yes, but it is not for me to judge the ethics or wisdom of such cases, Brother. All I do is apply the law.’

  ‘Speaking of asinine counsel, did you urge the drunken Hakeney to steal Robert’s cross?’ asked Michael. ‘An honest answer, please, or you will get no cure from Matt.’

  Stephen licked dry lips. ‘We have been through this, Brother – I had a letter from a well-wisher, saying that if Hakeney stole the almoner’s crucifix, I might win myself another client …’

  ‘That is not what I asked,’ said Michael sharply. ‘I want to know if you sneaked into a tavern wearing a disguise and incited Hakeney to commit a crime.’

  ‘You would have worn a disguise, too, if you had been obliged to enter that particular inn,’ retorted the lawyer, which Michael supposed was as close to an admission of guilt that they were likely to get. ‘And then I offered the Austins my legal services, as I told you yesterday.’

  ‘Who sent you this letter?’

  ‘I do not know, but it was good advice, because I did win myself another client.’ Stephen turned terrified eyes to Bartholomew. ‘I have answered your friend’s questions, so now you must help me. I have no strength in my wrists, and I feel dreadful. I hear you have cured several King’s Hall men, so do the same for me.’

  ‘How much sucura have you had recently?’ asked Bartholomew.

  ‘Sucura? Me? Do I look like the kind of man to buy illegal substances?’

  Bartholomew eyed him in distaste. ‘I cannot make an accurate diagnosis if you lie to me.’

  Stephen gulped. ‘Well, then, perhaps a few grains do slip into the pastries I enjoy before I go to bed at night. They taste so much better than when made with honey, and it is difficult to deny oneself when the stuff is so freely available. If the Sheriff does not want us to have it, then he should restrict its import.’

  ‘He tries,’ said Michael. ‘But he is hampered by the fact that arrogant folk with money undermine his efforts to stamp the business out.’

  While the monk went to fetch some Royal Broth from Agatha – although not before he had extracted a substantial fee to cover the cost of the ‘expensive ingredients’ – Bartholomew examined Stephen. It did not take him long to ascertain that the lawyer was suffering from all the same symptoms as Thelnetham, although he was most concerned about the weakness in his wrists.

  ‘May I consult your books while we wait for Michael to return?’ Bartholomew asked.

  Stephen winced at what he mistakenly thought was a bald reminder of past shabby dealings. ‘Cure me, and I will willingly donate them to Michaelhouse. But you cannot blame me for withdrawing the original offer.’

  Bartholomew went to the shelves and ran his finger along the displayed spines. The problem was that De architectura comprised ten volumes, and he could not recall in which one he had seen the section he wanted to check. While he began to look, Stephen continued to talk.

  ‘Blame the letters I was sent, warning me that Michaelhouse aims to move to the Fens. I asked Rougham about it, and he said the tale was true, but that Gonville would never leave, so I decided to favour them instead – until I had a message saying that they were going, too.’

  ‘The sender was lying – neither foundation has any intention of uprooting.’ Bartholomew was thoughtful. ‘Did you tell anyone else that our Colleges might be relocating?’

  ‘I might have mentioned it to one or two people.’ The lawyer’s cagey response told Bartholomew that he had probably gossiped to anyone who would listen. ‘However, the story is true, because some scholars have already left. Not from Michaelhouse or Gonville, perhaps, but from other foundations. And more are set to follow.’

  ‘Your rumour-mongering is probably responsible for that – the notion that two powerful Colleges might be on the verge of departure is rather different than the defection of a handful of malcontents from the hostels. Where are these messages? Do you still have them, or did you throw them away?’ Like the priors had done, Bartholomew thought.

  ‘I keep everything that is sent to me,’ came the unexpected but welcome reply. ‘Lawyers like records of correspondence. They are on the table, along with the one about Hakeney.’

  Eagerly, Bartholomew snatched up the notes, and inspected them carefully. The writing was identical on each, and the message brisk and to the point. Unfortunately, there was nothing to reveal the sender’s identity: the parchment was undistinguished, and the ink a standard black. However, the culprit needed to invest in a new pen, because a split nib meant that every upstroke was bifurcated.

  ‘I am surprised you acted on these,’ remarked Bartholomew, disappointment rendering him testy. ‘Surely you must be suspicious of unsolicited anonymous advice?’

  ‘Why, when the sender clearly means me well? He must be a scholar, though, because who else knows Latin and has access to writing materials?’

  ‘Lawyers,’ replied Bartholomew promptly. ‘Town priests and vicars. Wealthy merchants with their own clerks.’ There was no reply, so he went on. ‘Are you sure you have no idea who sent them? Please tell me if you do – it is important.’

  ‘Well, no one from Michaelhouse or Gonville Hall,’ said Stephen drily. ‘It deprived them of a generous gift. Perhaps it was someone from the hostels, jealous of your good fortune.’

  The obvious suspects would be from Zachary, thought Bartholomew, wondering if it was enough to exonerate Wauter. But would they really be so petty? Then the faces of the hostel men paraded through his mind – Kellawe, Nigellus, Segeforde, Morys – and he knew they would.

  ‘Tell me one more thing,’ he said. ‘What did you and Frenge discuss shortly before his death? You claimed earlier that he wanted your advice about gifts for Anne.’

  Stephen looked away miserably. ‘He came to bring me some sucura.’

  Bartholomew turned back to De architectura, and found the answer he was hunting in the eighth volume, just as Michael returned with the broth and young Bell, who had volunteered to feed it to the patient and sit with him afterwards. Briefly, Bartholomew told Michael what he had reasoned, speaking in a low voice so as not to be overheard by the loose-tongued lawyer.

  ‘But are you sure the brewery is to blame for the debilitas?’ the monk asked worriedly. ‘Because if you are wrong, there will be a rift between us and the town that will never heal – Shirwynk will not let it.’

  ‘I cannot be absolutely certain until I have inspected his vats, but it makes sense.’

  ‘Does it mean he is the strategist, too? His hatred of the University gives him a powerful motive, and Peyn would not be beneath penning sly letters to greedy lawyers – although he must have had help, given that his Latin is
poor and his handwriting worse.’

  ‘They could have hired a scribe. However, all this means that the dyeworks are innocent.’

  ‘That is what worries me, Matt. You have a vested interest in proving that the debilitas is not Edith’s fault, and I am afraid it might have clouded your judgement.’

  Bartholomew was too fraught to be indignant that his professional opinion should be questioned, or to remark that Michael should know him better than to think he would fabricate or misread evidence where matters of health were concerned.

  ‘There is only one way to find out,’ was all he said.

  Bartholomew was astonished to find the beadle who had been sent to Barnwell waiting for them when he and Michael emerged from Stephen’s house – not enough time had passed for the man to have run all the way there, spoken to the canons and trotted back.

  ‘Prior Norton is in town,’ the beadle explained. ‘So I was saved a journey. He was reluctant to admit to buying sucura at first, but confessed when I told him why I needed to know. He said Canon Wrattlesworth, who was the first to become ill, stirred some into a cup of elderflower wine one night, because he thought the priory’s brew was overly sour—’

  Bartholomew groaned. ‘That would not do it – the exposure needs to be continuous over a period of weeks or even months.’

  ‘You did not let me finish,’ said the beadle. ‘He declared his sweetened drink so much nicer than the usual vintage that he added a massive dose of sucura to every vat made this year. Everyone agreed it was better, and it was quickly consumed. Wrattlesworth was the cellarer, and Norton thinks that he and his friend Canterbury – the other dead canon – had far more than anyone else.’

  ‘What about the cook and the gardener?’ asked Bartholomew.

  ‘The same, because both spent a lot of time in the kitchen. Moreover, Norton gave several casks to Birton the reeve, who thought it too sweet, but his frail wife and elderly uncle loved it. And they are the other two who died.’

  ‘So you were right, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘The sucura is to blame, and we were wrong to accuse Nigellus. Damn! He will not let us forget this in a hurry. Still, Stephen will not represent him – unless he wants to be deprived of your healing Royal Broth.’